


Meant To

by tussock



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-20
Updated: 2017-12-20
Packaged: 2019-02-17 10:36:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13075083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tussock/pseuds/tussock
Summary: Based off a Tumblr post: "what if tattoos just appeared on our skin at key points in our lives"





	Meant To

Pete’s first mark appears at age eleven. It’s earlier than most people’s, but then again Pete’s got more feelings than most people, too. It’s small, a music note just inside the curve of his elbow, but he loves it instantly. He even forgoes his usual hoodie at school so everyone can see it.

By the time he’s twenty-two, Pete has nearly that many tattoos. They dot his arms and torso, coloring him in memories and purpose. He shows them off proudly, for the most part. All but the thorns; they were the only ones that hurt. 

He’s wearing a high necked t-shirt the day they show up to audition a new drummer. Joe rings the doorbell, and Pete shuffles a little on the porch, a perfect combination of bored and anxious. He just wants to get this over with, wants to get to the party they’re supposed to hit. There’s no way some twerp teenager Joe found in a book store will be any good anyway. 

He barely contains his eye roll when the kid opens the door, looks him over with disbelief. Seriously? He wants to slap Joe. The kid - “Patrick,” he mutters, shaking Pete’s hand - invites them in, carefully avoiding eye contact. They follow him to the basement where instruments line the walls and sheets of chord progressions lie scattered on the floor. Pete sighs, flopping onto the couch and resigning himself to a wasted evening. Patrick is shy and unassuming, wearing shorts with argyle socks for God’s sake, he’s awkward and small and… oh shit. Shit, he’s really, really good. 

Ever distracted, Pete makes it halfway through Patrick’s drum solo before he leans down to pick up the sheet music on the floor in front of him. He reads through it, hears the notes in his head, and it’s already stuck in there, replaying over and over, when the drumming stops abruptly.

“What are you doing?” Patrick asks, staring at him with huge eyes.

“You write music?” Pete rubs at his quarter note absentmindedly, while Patrick rushes toward him around the kit, swiping at the paper. 

“No, I play drums,” he replies simply, ripping it from Pete’s hands. Pete cocks one eyebrow, glances sideways at Joe. 

“Yeah, I can see that, but this is good shit. It’s really fucking good. Let’s hear it.” 

Patrick goes a shade of pale that Pete’s never seen. He’s about to consider a medical intervention when Patrick stammers, “N-no. Nope, it’s drums only, man. I j-just; It’s just for reference.” 

Pete shrugs. “Yeah, that’s bullshit. And I’m not leaving till I hear it. Ask Joe - I get what I want.” 

Patrick stares disbelievingly at Joe, who returns the look with apologetic eyes. “He really does, sorry. He’ll sleep here if he has to.” The kid - the argyle-clad cherub - finally gives in, and by the time he’s done, singing softly and strumming along, Pete can feel the familiar prickle of a new design on his side. 

He basically harasses Patrick until he joins the band, but has the good sense not to mention the tattoo. Pete even manages to get all the way home before he rushes to the bathroom, pulling his shirt over his head to inspect the intricate keyhole emblazoned on his ribs. He presses a finger to its warmth. It feels important. He dodges questions about its origin when he shoves the sketch towards his bandmates four years later. “Come on, _it’s so cool_ ,” he explains. They shake their heads, grumble at each other, but Pete gets what he wants, and it ends up on the cover of FUCT anyway. 

Patrick is always quiet when Pete, Joe, and Andy get into discussions about their marks. Sometimes they’re drunk, or just bored on the tour bus, but while they quickly hike up hemlines and tug down collars, describing a girl or a song, showing off snakes and skulls and even cartoons, Patrick excuses himself, waves off their jokes as they echo after them. 

Patrick always remains more clothed than the others - particularly more clothed than Pete - and won’t talk about it. Pete figures he’s got some stupid tattoos, something from a particularly shitty part of his life, or a crush he regrets the hell out of, and Pete doesn’t push, scratches at his thorns, understands.

They’re drinking after a show, the final night of their first real tour, one with a real bus and hotel rooms and fans that _know the words_ and Pete is high on it all, bounces between their table and the bar bringing round after round after round. Patrick gives in, not usually one to drink, and acquiesces to Pete’s Bacardi. Four later, Pete carries him haphazardly to a cab, holds him close while they drive back to the hotel, whispers to him how amazing he is, how beautiful, tells him about the keyhole with slurred words. Patrick looks up at him, liquored courage shining through squinted eyes, and shrugs as Pete helps him from the cab to the lobby elevator. 

“Fuggntattoos,” he slurs, leaning hard into Pete. “I didn’t even get one yet.” This surprises Pete, and the rum shows it. Patrick huffs in his arms. “Yeah, I know. I dunno why, Pete. Everyone else has em. Maybe I’m broken.” 

Pete hoists him farther up his shoulder, struggles a bit with the key card. “It’s whatever, man. It’ll happen.” He helps Patrick out of his shirt and into bed, tucks the comforter over him and climbs on top of it next to him. Patrick sighs sadly and rolls over, pulling the sheets around him. “Or I’m just broken.”

“Or you’re going to get something really, really special.” Pete smiles, and snuggles along Patrick’s back. If either remembers, they don’t talk about it in the morning.

In fact, neither brings it up again for years. Pete remains quiet despite his growing collection, though both Andy and Joe will flash a new mark here and there, bragging about an accomplishment, or describing some heartbreak. When Infinity On High debuts at number one, Pete cheers and compares crescent moons with the other two, a little high from Joe’s blunt earlier. He almost gets carried away, almost doesn’t notice Patrick slinking off to his room with a morose look. “Hang on, guys, I’ll be back,” he laughs, high fiving them again, and chases the singer down the hallway.

Pete knocks on the door softly. “Hey, Trick, open up.” He tugs the hem of his shirt down, conscious suddenly of quite how short it is, and the way it brushes the new ink on his hip bone. “I wanna talk to you, man.” 

It opens slowly, Patrick glaring dejectedly at the carpet. He doesn’t look up when he speaks. “Yeah, Pete?” 

Pete forces his way inside, pushing the door back and letting it fall shut behind him. “Come on, Trick. It’s okay, some people just don’t get them-”

“I’m almost twenty-three!” Patrick strides to the bed, landing angrily on the edge. “Name one fucking person who doesn’t have one.” 

Pete tries, he really does, to think of someone, but there’s no one. Not his parents, his siblings, not his friends or bandmates, not random bartenders or gas station attendants or classmates in school… just no one. He closes the distance between himself and Patrick, pressing his shins against the side of the bed between Patrick’s knees. “I don’t give a fuck if you’ve got one or ten or a thousand, Patrick.” Pete places his hand on Patrick’s jaw, fingers at the stubble there. He looks up at Pete with sad eyes. “Seriously, Trick, you’re the reason this fucking band works. You made this happen. Maybe it’s why you don’t have anything, you know? Like, we’re all marked up because we’re having these life-changing experiences, but you? You _are_ the fucking experience.” There’s a pause in the air, and Pete does the only thing he can think of, leans down into Patrick, brushes their lips together.

He half expects Patrick to break away, or run, or maybe even vomit, but he kisses back instead, wrapping a hand up across Pete’s back. Pete tongues into his mouth, tasting him and grinning against his teeth. Patrick shudders and breathes against Pete softly. “What does it feel like?” he whispers, fingers tracing the designs down Pete’s sleeve to his wrist.

Pete kisses him high on the cheek. “It itches a little, kinda tickles. Mine get warm, but I’m not sure if that’s everyone or just me.” He mouths around Patrick’s tragus, along his jaw, presses up into his neck. “You’ll get one some day, don’t worry. And if you don’t, fuck it, who cares?”

Patrick turns to him, chuckling. He leans back and breaks the contact, which causes Pete to stand, looking down at him. Patrick’s hand falls from Pete’s, pulls his shirt up over his ribcage. Shining in glossy, bright black, in precisely the same place as Pete’s, Patrick blushes as he exposes a tiny, intricate key.


End file.
